Groundbreaking
I am ashamed to admit that I was not excited about any of this. Amid the sudden changes brought about by the pandemic, moving and losing my studio felt like a tipping point. And it was, or maybe it was more like one of those rollercoaster rides that flips a ridder upside down for a brief and terrifying moment before bringing him back around. My life was upside down, like most of ours were, and anything that was not safely strapped down shook loose and let go.
When we bought our current property, there was a promise of a new studio. But among the stress and losses of the pandemic, the shutdowns, homeschooling my kids, and the looming economic threat to the world (and art world), the emotional or physical energy required to build a new studio seemed impossible to generate. Inside the loss and pain of 2020, it felt like a wasteful and arrogant investment in a future, for so many reasons, I was no longer certain would materialize.
I walked our property many times, trying to imagine what it would feel like to stand on the porch and look out of a hypothetical building. I felt immense pressure to plan everything right, as something about disturbing the beautiful rolling green grass for anything less than perfect terrified me. The first time a crew showed up and drove stakes into the ground, I was emotional. It was all wrong, and I was angry no one else could feel it. To the annoyance of everyone, including my husband, I pulled the stakes out of the ground. We spent hours back at the drawing board, changing the layout and trying to create something that looked as if it belonged here.
In the end, we adjusted the position of the building. We measured and staked out the ground one final time. As I stood among a hillside of little orange flags and wooden posts, I could finally imagine drinking coffee on the porch and the big picture window the students could lookout as they worked. If there was a future that included art, this felt right.
For weeks during the permit pending, I would sit out among my stakes. But when the upset of construction finally came, though I was familiar with the process, I discovered I was unprepared to see the peaceful hillside overturned. I could not help but feel guilty about all the ground broken in my name. I pretended to be excited, but it was all for show. I kept the shame sprinkled with fear emotions to myself.
The back of the studio sat down several feet into the hill. I walked in the trench around the foundation, mindlessly running my hands across the surface of retaining walls and cut earth. On the far side, I would emerge at ground level and stay that way until I rounded the corner of my would-be porch, then the ground around me rose higher and higher until I was again standing inside the hill. Round and round this went on, with my hand running against the dirt.
My hand skimmed across a large rock buried deep. It was cut in half because of my foundation. In an instant, I felt physical pain. I stopped, placed both hands on the rock, muttered a quiet prayer, and let go of a few tears. I wondered how many years that rock laid content beneath the earth, buried in the hillside, before we felt the need to break this ground.
The stem walls came up, then the foundation, and then the framing. Crews came nearly every day for four solid months. It was as if they were rebuilding hope. And now I can sit on the porch, that at one point lived only in my imagination.
Iām so thankful to my friends and family who supported me through this project. And to my builder, who is an incredible (and patient) man. And to my closest friends, you know who you are, who talked me through every step forward and never left my side. And for the memory of Mr. Curt, who I know would be proud of this space if he were here to see it.
The rollercoaster ride has flipped back around. Slow and cautious steps forward in all areas of my life... But I now have a beautiful studio nestled into a hill. It includes a personal workspace, a gathering area with that big picture window, a front porch with an incredible view, and an empty classroom - eagerly waiting to greet students.
My easel rests on the wall adjacent to the split rock, and I think about it almost every day. While I cannot undo what is already done, I can recognize and honor the sacrifice. All the beauty that comes out of this space, from the relationships we form here to the art we create, may never atone for splitting that rock. But we can try.
So, this studio, where we shine a light on beauty, where we tell the truth in art, where we build each other up, where we celebrate messes, and where we create because we were born to do it, this space is dedicated to that rock - and to all those we have loved and lost.
This is no longer about breaking ground. This is about being groundbreaking.